


same soul

by ferim



Series: (over and over) [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hades (Video Game) Fusion, M/M, Memory Loss, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferim/pseuds/ferim
Summary: “it’s fine.” but it’s not, not with that face. “better than you remembering everything.”“but you died and I screamed.” he holds the man’s hand with both of his. “and then I forgot.”sylvain drinks from the river lethe and sees an unfamiliar (familiar) facefor sylvix week 2020 (legends and promises)
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: (over and over) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932850
Kudos: 23
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	same soul

**Author's Note:**

> i had to delete close to a thousand words because after checking and realized i didn't like what was happening. so now im too tired and this most likely has a dozen mistakes. also how? did it turn to 4k?? this was 2k?? im going to rest now but! im still gonna say it. pls play hades! 
> 
> this Does Not contain spoilers for the game btw!  
> EDIT: ok so there are only vague mentions of things in the plot and this location is actually near the end of a player's first run in the game SO that can seem like a spoiler? no names are said tho!

Legends have long perpetuated the mortal realm, countless tales of gods and goddesses, and not all are stories of their kindness. Most of it contains their cruelty, and Sylvain has never liked the way most succumbed to them. The unspoken hierarchy claiming that the gods are great and untouchable has always left a foul taste in his mouth, and even now, within the depths of his afterlife, he still dislikes them.

Perhaps he hates them now, although he is silent about it, because of their control over men like him. He hates that they deem themselves above everyone when they themselves fight and spew conflict. He hates how they play favorites, how their conflicts that drag in mortals also led to him being here. Here in a realm that he feels so out of place in.

He hates the label of being deserving, of having a rightful place in a realm of the greats. He hates that it took blood and tears and death for him to reach this place. He hates the feeling of mockery that ties him here. He is a hero, was a hero, but it took the death of his lover and the death of his people to reach this point.

Maybe it’s this hate that made him want to forget.

The river Lethe flows all around this realm, and Sylvain doesn’t know how much he drank from it now. It’s soothing how he eases what’s left of the feelings he has in his memories. It’s nice how it helps him think less of what led him here. He doesn’t admit that he hasn’t completely forgotten because there’s still the warm feeling he has in him that’s tied directly to his death. Sylvain has mostly forgotten, but that’s one thing he hasn’t let slip. Still, with all that it is that made him drink — with reasons he has also eventually forgotten — Sylvain can no longer tell how much he’s drank to ease himself from that.

The river Lethe flows, and the legends of it persist. Yet Sylvain found it amusing how legends spread even in places like this. The legend of the river’s spirit is one of them, something about its beauty and grace and sorrow. Sylvain thought it would be funny if it did show up as he took another drink, another means to forget.

That would be funny.

But then it did.

And he spills the bowl of the river’s water, crawling away in surprise.

The spirit looks at him with a frown, and Sylvain can’t fault the spirit for thinking he’s an embarrassment.

“Are you,” he hesitates. “Are you Lethe? The river spirit?”

They said that it would take the form of something beautiful, but Sylvain didn’t expect this. The man in front of him is still frowning, long black hair shining. He hates gods. He hates goddesses. He hates their selfish whims, but the look on this one is too ethereal and beautiful.

Well, a spirit is not exactly a god, right?

The spirit regards him, looks at his entire being. He’s standing waist-deep in the water from where he’d emerged, and Sylvain doesn’t breathe when this spirit slicks back their long hair. The spirit also looks longer at Sylvain’s face, peering at it and assessing whatever it is he notices. It’s terrifying like this, being seen by something too beautiful to be a cruel magical being.

The spirit looks until it finally looks towards the bowl Sylvain dropped. The water in it is spilled all over, and the spirit’s face turns angry.

“How much did you drink?” The spirit neither confirms nor denies Sylvain’s statement, but the haughtiness of the encounter makes Sylvain think this is definitely Lethe, the spirit of the river bearing the same name.

How gorgeous. Sylvain hates them but mythical beings are always so beautiful. He’s realized as much when he ended up in this place, when the ruler of the entire realm and those of his house were seen upon first entering this place. It was both unfair and expected that each being he saw is attractive. The legends don’t lie about that.

The spirit, Lethe, walks out of the river, and Sylvain is still there in the same position on the ground, still shocked and awed because yes, this spirit is too beautiful. Is this why people like him fall to their whim so quickly?

He doesn’t move even when the spirit kneels right in front of him, looking right at his eyes with the same angry expression. It’s a bit hard to breathe with that looking right at you, but he should probably answer soon to avoid incurring the wrath of god (a spirit?). He’d rather not try to do that even in his afterlife.

“I — I’m not sure.” And it’s true. Sylvain’s drank a lot, that much he knows. He doesn’t remember what led him to that point, but he knows that most of what he has left of his mortal life no longer persists within him. The Lethe made sure of that.

He thought he spirit, being that of the river and all, would be pleased that someone is using it for its intended purpose. But he looks even angrier, and he grabs Sylvain’s shirt and forces him to move closer. Too close. It’s harder to stop staring.

“Why?”

Sylvain blinks. The spirit speaks again, venom and malice clear in his tone. “Why did you drink that?”

He doesn’t know what prompts him to answer this way, but it comes out anyway. Sylvain tries to grin. “What other reason is there?”

To forget. Sylvain wished to forget.

The spirit loses his anger in an instant, and Sylvain sees clearly his despair.

“I’m using it well aren’t I?” He doesn’t know what prompts him to speak up again, but Sylvain does because the sudden change in expression is something Sylvain doesn’t understand and strangely doesn’t want to see. “I’m using the river properly!”

The spirit doesn’t say anything, just stares right at Sylvain’s grinning face. He looks ready to retort, and the hurt on his face is still ever-present.

The grip on Sylvain’s shirt loosens. “What did you call me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Earlier,” the spirit stands again, and Sylvain shouldn’t think it’s hot how the spirit looks down at him. “You said a name.”

Right, Sylvain did do that. “Lethe?”

The spirit sighs and tightly closes his eyes, as if withholding himself from something.

“I see.”

When he opens his eyes again, Sylvain sees it closed and guarded. He doesn’t understand, but he knows it’s not a good thing.

The spirit helps Sylvain stand.

It’s a strange experience, befriending a spirit.

The spirit has begun frequenting where Sylvain usually gets his drink, and it’s a strange experience. It’s strange how he doesn’t stop staring at Sylvain every time he tries to get some water. It’s unnerving enough that Sylvain can’t help but only take a small sip.

The spirit doesn’t say anything, merely watches, but it’s still uncomfortable. He feels like he’s doing something he shouldn’t, which is absurd given that it’s a water spirit of the same river he’s benefiting from. He waits until Sylvain’s finished and even waits until it’s Sylvain who starts talking to him

It’s strange befriending a spirit who spends most of the time Sylvain sees him right at that spot. Sometimes he has his legs in the water, looking into its flow until Sylvain makes his presence known. Sometimes, rarely, Sylvain will see him with his hair tied up while he does so. It gives him a clearer view of the somber expression on the spirit’s face. It might be a good thing that he chose this isolated location then, if it meant he had the chance to meet such beauty.

The spirit doesn’t mention much about himself and Sylvain doesn’t have any heroic stories to boast about like some of the other inhabitants he’s met here, but they talk. They talk about anything in particular. Nothing is mentioned about their past because Sylvain doesn’t want to pry and he’s losing most of his already anyway. The spirit doesn’t push for it either. They’d talk about how the light doesn’t change for this realm. They’d talk about the coliseum so far from where they are, housing a bull of a man and a former hero king. They talk about the visitor gossiped by everyone else, and the mention of the realm’s lord and the reward he offers to prevent this visitor from leaving. Most of the topics are brought up in amusement.

As expected, Sylvain also doesn’t learn much about the spirit’s history, which must be a lot since spirits are almost immortal. But he does learn other things. He learns that the spirit is easily irritated but he likes the feel of the water on his legs. He learns that the spirit knows almost all the places within this realm. He also learns he’s met the visitor, has watched him fight and win against the hero-king in the big stadium. Sylvain learns of the spirit’s excitement, the little bits of it, when he tells the tale in vivid detail, face lit up with how much he enjoyed watching that match.

There are no days in this realm, nothing to denote the changing of seasons, of times. Sylvain doesn’t know how often he meets with the spirit, and he doesn’t know when it happened but at some point, his frequent visits to this isolated area are no longer for him to drink.

Perhaps the spirit also thought that they’ve spent long enough together to form a kinship, because he begins Sylvain’s current visit with a question.

“Why do you drink often?”

He hasn't in a long while, if he’s being honest. He prefers to drink only at this spot together with its solitude, so the last time the spirit saw him drink was truly that — the last. Sylvain still recalls what transpired that time, but he knows it’s been a while. He’s walked around the realm and even went back here two or three more times before the spirit finally asked him this question. It’s also surprising that the spirit, grand and holy as he is, thinks he needs to wait for Sylvain to become comfortable enough to answer it.

How strange, how different.

“It helps you forget.” He says it as if it’s enough of an explanation, but it is. That’s what the river is for in the end. The spirit knows that just as much as Sylvain does. He thinks that would be the end of the spirit’s inquiry.

But not quite. “Have you forgotten everything?”

“No.” Sylvain doesn’t even have to think about it. He’s been drinking from the river but he never actually finishes what he’s taken. There are things he doesn’t recall anymore, like whether or not he had a family. It’s a clean swipe from his mind, no traces of whatever relations he had with his relatives. Maybe Sylvain drank the first time to make sure he won’t remember.

His memories now are strange as well. Parts of what he can recall are mainly feelings of warmth and comfort, but it’s a sliver and barely encompasses a person’s whole life. He barely remembers anything anymore only feelings of love and comfort and happiness. He remembers feeling that for a select few, but the Lethe has helped him forget, so not much of those people are things he can recall.

He also thinks about how bits of his memory tied to that love are what makes him still keep parts of his death. He pushes it to the back of his mind.

Sylvain feels a touch on his hand, and it occurs to him that he’s been sitting quietly beside the spirit for some time now. The spirit has his legs in the river, and Sylvain chose to sit cross legged beside him out of respect for the river’s purity. He looks down at his hand to see another, soft and warm, right on top of his.

When he looks up, he sees the spirit looking displeased. He also looks worried. It makes Sylvain smile.

“I don’t remember much anymore,” he admits. “I only remember some of the good ones. They’re not a lot so probably had a bad life.” He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Nothing more is said after that and eventually, the spirit moves his hand away and looks back down at his own legs. Sylvain looks at the river with him. The water in it flows, and Sylvain basks in this moment of comfort.

Sylvain eventually leaves again, likes to walk around, to wander around the afterlife.

What he didn’t expect was the spirit looking surprised. Barely there as an expression, it was hidden immediately. Strange and interesting.

He repeats it, promising to return.

“Where do you go?”

It the first thing Sylvain hears when he goes to the same part of the river. The Lethe surrounds most of this realm, and many can become isolated locations. Sylvain has recently met another who chose that type of isolation and has left him to go back here once the spirit came to mind.

“I walk around,” he answers, sitting next to the spirit but not mimicking them with their legs placed in the water. He can’t disrespect the water that helps him. “This is a huge place.”

And it is. There are still so many places that he hasn’t ventured to. There’s no end to this realm, to this place said to house great people. Should house great people. All Sylvain sees are people with blood on their hands. Great people, in the eyes of the gods, usually mean great killers.

“But you always come back here,” the spirit tells him. He’s not looking at Sylvain, choosing to look down at the river instead. Sylvain shrugs.

“I used to get water here.” Used to. Because Sylvain can’t seem to handle any more of the sad look the spirit makes every time he would take a sip. “What about you?”

The spirit glances at his direction, and Sylvain repeats. “What do you do?”

“Soaking.”

Sylvain doesn’t know what to say to that. While it does explain his constant position whenever Sylvain would see him, it’s still strange as an answer. Does he do this all the time?

The spirit could probably tell his concern because he continues. “The water helps forget, doesn’t it?”

It’s true. Sylvain said the same thing. It’s why Sylvain used to drink from it. Yet soaking doesn’t seem to relate to that specific feature, but the spirit doesn’t immediately continue. He looks down at the river with a troubled expression, and Sylvain is close to telling the spirit that he doesn’t need to explain further.

But the spirit does, and he explains. “Was injured a while back. Thought maybe putting it in the water will help me forget.”

Sylvain keeps staring even when the spirit continues. “Was injured protecting someone, and my legs have been painful since.” The spirit turns his head this time, and there’s resolve in what used to be a guarded face. “It was more painful when I actually ended up here.”

Sylvain almost chokes.

“What?”

And the spirit looks amused, the melancholy is present — always seems to be — be still looks ready to make fun of him. The grin on his face looks worrying.

“Did you really think a spirit would just come up and talk to you?”

Fine, that’s true. Sylvain can’t deny that.

“You came out of the river,” Sylvain mutters as a weak defense. “What, did you just swim?”

“Yes.” It’s said so naturally that Sylvain has nothing left to retort. One of the most dangerous things you can do in the river Lethe, and this spirit — this person — says it so nonchalantly. Even more when he gives a bit of detail. “I didn’t die quickly, so I felt most of the pain before I left.”

Sylvain didn’t even know you can do that. Did the river Lethe also help the body forget the pain it was meant to feel for eternity? Maybe when Sylvain drank it happened. It’s been a while.

The topic instead is continued. “How did you die?”

It’s a strange topic to ask and Sylvain wonders if the person beside him is thinking the same thing, but they merely answer with a voice so monotonous, Sylvain would think they’re discussing sermons or eulogies, not the cause of their death.

“Lances. A lot of them.” How does it work? How is it so sudden for emotions to bombard him only with this man’s words? It’s quick how Sylvain’s blood runs cold. Does he even have blood anymore? He still feels cold, and a feeling from his leftover memory creeps on him.

“I survived long enough for a man to put one through my heart. Last I heard was screaming.”

Screaming? Why was someone screaming? Sylvain feels himself at the edge of a memory, of what’s left of it. The Lethe has helped him forget. Sylvain doesn’t know why it makes him think about it, doesn’t know why when the man finally turns to him there’s frustration on his features.

“Who was screaming?” Because Sylvain can’t help but ask.

“You tell me,” the man retorts, and Sylvain feels unable to breathe. “You were there.”

He can’t. He can’t tell. He doesn’t remember. Only sensations and feelings are left within him, vague depictions of his death and his entire life. He recalls the taste of blood, but he doesn’t know whose it is. None of the actual events are clear to him, but the screaming is the one thing that he remembers he did.

He wants to say it’s the only thing, but the Lethe helped him forget only some, and the memory of a person being lanced to death haunts him.

Yet, even with the man looking frustrated as he is at Sylvain, he still can’t answer because Sylvain doesn’t remember who it was that he screamed for, not the name or the face. Just the feeling.

Sylvain grabs the man's arm, somehow fearing that they might walk away, but he doesn’t know what to say. It’s the man who speaks for him.

“You were reckless.”

And goddess, god, whatever it is that he used to curse back above, how does he not remember this man?

“I’m sorry.” Not for his recklessness, he thinks. Sylvain lets go of the man’s arm to take his hand instead, and he is so, so glad the man doesn’t move away. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

The river Lethe helped him forget, helped him forget most of what he used to be and he used to experience. But the Lethe also did not take away the feelings associated with his death. He made sure of that. He made sure of the warmth he felt to not go away, so he knows it was directed to a particular person, to someone who was there with him when he passed.

He hates his own actions, but he cannot hate the Lethe. He hates himself because he feels love in his bones, but the water washed away any association it may have to the man next to him. He doesn’t remember, just as the water promised.

The Lethe makes sure of your wants, and the drink, as you asked, will help you forget.

Sylvain regrets.

“It’s fine.” But it’s not, not with that face. “Better than you remembering everything.”

“But you died and I screamed.” He holds the man’s hand with both of his. “And then I forgot.”

And now he doesn’t know of the love he may have felt for him. All because he chose to forget. The man stares.

“But you still remember parts, don’t you?” He does. He nods. Sylvain tells him the one thing he’s sure of.

“I cared about you.” Sylvain sees a nod.

“You promised me something, but it looks like you still made it happen.”

“I’m sorry.”

The man makes a sound like he wants to laugh but he doesn’t. “You’re a bit different now that you’re here.”

Is he? Must be the river. Yet he cannot blame the river for his own choices, and Sylvain kept drinking until this man appeared before him. And he regrets. The man doesn’t comment on Sylvain squeezing his hand.

“Me too, I think. I drank some. I don’t remember much.”

“But you still remembered me.” Because that is the thing that makes the two different. Sylvain doesn’t know who this person is, and he cannot even be sure if the love in his memories is the same as the love this man deserves. Their time together here has caused new things for him to feel towards this person, but it pales in comparison to what’s left of his vague past. There was love. Now it’s gone. Sylvain chose to forget while this man did the opposite.

“I wanted to find you first,” the man tells him, adding another thing to what makes this man deserving of his place here. “I thought I died earlier than you.”

Sylvain only looks down at their hands. The man cared enough to reunite with him while he drank away his memories, sorrow and happiness all within. He feels the hand he’s holding onto move, and he lets it go. That same hand moves to his cheek instead, making Sylvain look at him.

“You look angry,” he hears. “You look weird angry.”

“Don’t I usually get angry?” The sensations he has left always made him think so.

“No, you acted like an idiot.” The man grins. “Made everyone think you were harmless.”

“But I’m not.”

“You’re not.”

Neither of them wouldn’t have ended up here if they were.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Sylvain feels a slight squeeze on his cheek. “It’s unlike you.”

It’s hard to speak when all he feels is guilt towards this person, and Sylvain doesn’t care enough to act as he was in his earlier life, because all that’s left of himself is a memory of a forgotten lover, and having that person in front of him, still forgotten, brings a kind of self-hatred he never expected from himself.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” Sylvain repeats it, clearly and honestly. The man in front of him looks ready to berate him for it, but Sylvain wants to clarify.

“But if I promised you something then I want to make it happen.”

Is it that surprising? The man’s eyes widen and he lets his hand fall from Sylvain’s cheek. Barely a second later and he’s snickering, smirking. The amusement is nicer than the grief he carried often.

“We promised to stay together until death,” the man tells him. “You already did that.”

“Then I’ll make it longer.” Sylvain grabs the hand again and presses a kiss on his palm, an offering with a promise murmured from his lips. “I’ll stay with you even here.”

He doesn’t get an immediate answer, and Sylvain looks up to see the man frowning. It’s not as bad as the first few times they met, and this is the one Sylvain has come to believe is a permanent fixture on his pretty face.

“And you’re okay with that?” Sylvain smiles against the man’s palm.

“I am.” Because the feeling he has for this person is new and nothing close to what he has in his memories. Yet it’s still something. There’s eternity here in this realm, in a realm Sylvain believes he is still undeserving of, but he’ll make the most of it learning to make this new feeling grow.

“I will,” he tells the man again. Sylvain looks at him directly this time as he says it. He also grins. “I will once you tell me your name.”

Another instance of eyes widening. Sylvain continues to grin, cheeky and hopeful, and it makes the man sigh.

He sighs as if he’s begrudgingly accepting his new fate, and Sylvain’s grin grows wider with a show of teeth.

The man sighs, but Sylvain can see him smile.

“Felix.” Sylvain leans closer, just to hear it clearer, just to see the smile even better. The other doesn’t back away.

“My name is Felix.”

**Author's Note:**

> i know i said the game im currently playing would make a cameo but it turned into this so can i still call it that lol


End file.
